


Just a Little Taste of Whiskey

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboys & Cowgirls, F/M, First Kiss, Pining, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Whiskey's pining after the one person he can't have.
Relationships: Jack | Whiskey/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 58





	Just a Little Taste of Whiskey

A few days ago, Agent Whiskey asked you out on a date. In front of the other agents. You said no. Instead of causing him total embarrassment as you’d hoped, your denial only gave way to a gleening determination in his dark eyes. He never reacts the way you expect him to. Because now you’re just anxiously awaiting his next plan of attack. 

The disappointed sigh you released at the information of Whiskey being your partner for your upcoming mission was most definitely heard throughout the whole Statesman building. Ginger felt it in her soul, Tequila in his deepest, darkest thoughts. 

Here’s where you find yourself now: seated across from… your  _ partner _ in the middle of your briefing. His eyes haven’t left you the entire time and every single time you look over, he gives you some smirk or a raised brow and you really wouldn’t mind a glass of whiskey righ—wait, that was phrased entirely wrong and now you think you might just puke. Even alcohol has been ruined for you. Now, what are you supposed to do? Suffer, apparently, and sober, too. Fuck. 

“Well, darlin’, looks like you an’ me are goin’ on a date after all!” 

_ What? _

“Don’t look too surprised,” Whiskey says chuckling, “were ya so distracted by my charmin’, good looks that ya missed the part ‘bout us bein’ a couple a’ lovers on a fancy date in a bar?”

Your head swivels to Champagne just as he’s getting up from his seat because you know he’s doing this just to fuck with you. His eyes tell all as he gives the both of you a nod in inclination that the meeting’s over, and you an extra wink just for the hell of it. 

“Your looks aren’t charming, a date in a bar is not fancy, and all of this is just our cover,” you state, leveling your gaze with his to show your seriousness, “This is not me agreeing to go on a date with you.”

You’re still sitting, gathering up your files and papers, too much attention focused on Whiskey as he walks around the table to your side. Gripping the edge of his hat, he leans down, says, “We’ll see about that, then,” tips it like a gentleman, and walks off. 

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh for not the last time until this mission is over. 

~ ~ ~

The place was huge, smelling of smoke and liquor and greasy food, and so loud you could barely hear Whiskey’s  _ whoop _ of approval at some stupid game on the TV, let alone your own thoughts. If, and only if, you had said yes, this is most definitely not where you would have chosen to go. 

Nor what you would’ve chosen to wear. Whiskey hadn’t had to change his look much, aside from hiding his weapons when he’d typically have them on full display, but you’re out of your element in skin-tight jeans, a pair of fashionable, cowgirl boots, and a top to show as much skin as possible. There would’ve been a hat if only you hadn’t declined because that last thing you needed was an unfocused partner ogling at you more than he already does. The universe just isn’t in your favor, is it?

“To your left, up at the bar,” you whisper, finally having made eyes with your targets. The only rule Champagne had given was to take them out with as little casualties as possible. 

“How we gonna play this, sweetcheeks?” Whiskey whispers back, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a swift flick of a match. 

You blow the disgusting smoke away from your face, thinking through your limited options. Too many to just attack unprovoked in a crowd of people, they’ll fire at whoever looks suspicious. They’re having too much of a good time to be bothered to leave just yet, so that’s out of the question. So the only option is to empty the bar. And maybe you can’t shoot at them…

Grasping the handle of the gun stuck in the waist of Whiskey’s pants and rolling your eyes at the sound he makes of pleasant surprise, you raise the barrel straight towards the ceiling and fire multiple shots into the air. 

That gets people running, and your partner wincing at the sudden, deafening sound in his ears. “Jumpy, are we?” you say, smirking.

He only smirks right back at you. “Perhaps that wasn’t the best plan of attack, but, I gotta admit, that was kinda hot.”

“Yeah, try not to stare too much. Looks like we got a fight on our hands.” 

Just as you’d assumed, the bar empties fairly quickly, leaving you and your targets the only people left. Country music is still blaring through the jukebox, a glaring irony for such a twangy tune to be playing during a deadly fight. 

“Our only order is to kill you,” you announce, cracking your knuckles and raring to go, “so you have no leverage.”

Six targets and two of you—easy odds for a couple of trained agents.

“Three-for-three, honey?” Whiskey says, grabbing for his lasso, “Bet I can take ‘em out faster than you.”

“You’re on.”

For as much as you despise everything about the man, the two of you make the best damn team the Statesman Agency has ever seen, and perhaps Champ wasn’t just fucking with you for the hell of it when he assigned you together. 

Your outfit hadn’t allowed for any kind of weaponry to be stored on your body, but you didn’t mind so much because you were well aware of useful, everyday objects that’d be conveniently placed for your benefit inside the bar. Like a pool stick, for example. They’re very good for blunt trauma and jabs at the throat region. Or beer mugs. A weighted throw to the ol’ noggin and the shattering glass could very well knock a person out in one hit. 

And, when you’ve been pushed into a literal corner with an ugly mug coming at you with a steak knife in hand, all you need do is shout your partner’s name, catch the gun he throws you, and fire a well-aimed shot into the middle of the forehead. 

“Good God, a gun in your hand has never turned me on more.” You roll your eyes at Whiskey’s ill-timed statement, turning your head expecting to see cartoon hearts emerge from his eyes. “I won the bet, by the way.” He’s never not cocky, though. 

“Bullshit,” you say, breathing heavily.

“I seared ‘im with my lasso before I threw my gun to you.” He gestures towards the pair of legs lying to one side of him and the rest of the torso on the other side. “Looks like you owe me.”

A sigh. “Alright, what do you want?”

Instead of replying with an actual answer, he grasps your face in both callused hands and gives you a searing kiss that, admittedly, makes your knees weak. His mustache scratches your skin, but his lips are warm and soft and you find yourself leaning into despite everything when he pulls away. You take a deep breath, finding you’d held it the entire time.

“That’ll suffice for now, darlin’. I still think I can get ya to go on a date with me without the help of a bet.”

Gin and Tequila can’t know about this or your reputation will be ruined. 


End file.
